


Crown Shyness

by faeblesmith



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Physical Curse, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pratchett-Gaiman Magic, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22353997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeblesmith/pseuds/faeblesmith
Summary: “ Time can be categorized into two vaguely symmetrical categories: Before and After. Before, Heaven was one third stronger; Before, love was something intrinsic to all that existed; Before, the idea of free will was still something only discussed in the boardroom and, at least by The Arch-Angels, at the watercooler....‘Right, the itchy feeling, right, of course.’ He says, absolutely not heartbroken even a little. It makes Aziraphale feel itchy like there’s a spider in him. Of course. Of course it would.“OR:Five (and a half) times Aziraphale and Crowley can’t, for Cosmic Reasons, touch. And one time the can.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 107
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Crown Shyness

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019. You can find the corresponding art done by Cyn on their Tumblr @amadness2method.




Time can be categorized into two vaguely symmetrical categories: Before and After. Before, Heaven was one third stronger; Before, love was something intrinsic to all that existed; Before, the idea of _free will_ was still something only discussed in the boardroom and, at least by The Arch-Angels, at the watercooler. After, many names were struck from the roster. Many more than even the highest angels would have expected. Before. After, it was quiet and still and lacking the hubbub of the lively office Heaven once was; After, love was only a whisper in the breakroom that trailed into sipping coffee and tapping pens when Gabriel or Michael came in.

Eden was an Experiment of Heaven. It was HER big idea, SHE had pitched it with such fervor that even the less enthusiastic came around (they would have had to, regardless. SHE had pitched it, after all). Eden was the first major rebranding After. Those Below had a feeling it would be of some importance, so they sent their most begrudged medium minion, once a great angel of Heaven—an Arch-Angel, if you believe the rumors. Crawley can still feel the soul-deep bruises, so many millennia later. The thing about sauntering vaguely downwards is that it often feels a lot more like tumbling, and marble is far more painful than it is pretty. The vivid sting of betrayal still throbs deep in his mortal bones and his immortal soul, ripped of his name and his home. Love, he thinks, is entirely the fabrication of a very cruel parent; it is only the fully delusional that believe love to be something that could _possibly_ exist outside the perfect emptiness of Heaven.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it, his fall, that is. It was, at its core, a misunderstanding. Crawley had only asked if it was really a good idea to obliterate that _entire_ galaxy because _one_ planet wasn’t developing as quickly as SHE had wanted it to; yes, he had suggested SHE perhaps talk to Michael about her anger issues, but did that really call for this? The current “this” in question is a very silly assignment from the Lower Downs to convince the only woman on this particular rock to eat a very obviously meant-to-be-eaten fig. So, Crawley snuck into The Garden and softly suggested how scrumptious a certain fruit seemed. Really, it was Eve who was responsible, who made the choice to take a bite, who gave the fig to Adam shortly thereafter. All Crawley had done was plant a simple idea.

It was far easier than it should have been to get into The Garden, all things considered. The Guardian of the East Gate seemed to be thoroughly distracted by… nothing in particular. The first time Crawley had noticed him, he’d been cooing over a fawn. Later, after planting the temptation in Eve’s mind, he noticed the angel absorbed in fussing with his robes. _What a very queer angel,_ Crawley thought to himself as he slithered surreptitiously up the Garden wall. He curls up near the angel’s feet and slowly begins to manifest next to him.

“Well,” Crawley hisses, “that went down like a lead balloon.” The strange angel merely glances to him. The blue eyes of his vessel were mesmerizing, a direct contrast to Crawley’s yellow. The angel, _Aziraphale,_ Crawley recalls with a start, shifts uncomfortably, side eying the demon next to him.

“Oh,” the angel stammers. “Yes, it did, rather.” Crawley couldn’t help looking at him. He glowed, literally. If he focused, he thought he might be able to see Aziraphale’s halo around his cloudy curls. This corporal form was somehow exactly what Crawley had always imagined for an angel and nothing at all like he expected; Aziraphale seemed _warm_. Crawley could only remember frigidity in Heaven.

“Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me,” Crawley continues. “First offence and everything.” _You shouldn’t be doing this, Crawley._ The thought worms its way into his head, offensive and uninvited. Outwardly, he makes a comment to the effect of _How bad could it possibly be?_ Aziraphale scoffs, seeming offended, but no longer afraid. It’s progress. Crawley would take it.

“It’s not for you to understand. It’s ineffable.” He almost laughs. This sweet, naive angel. He glances down Aziraphale’s body, letting his eyes linger for a moment. Then something catches his eye. He says,

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” Aziraphale pointedly does not reply. “You did! It was flaming like anything. Lost it already, have you?” There isn’t a hint of venom behind the words and Aziraphale glances over guiltily. He admits he gave it away. Crawley is doomed. Distantly, thunder cracks and lightning lights up the quickly fading Seventh Day. 

A drop of the First Rain spats against Aziraphale’s cheek and he can feel the warm tingle of holy water. _Oh,_ he thinks to himself. Of course, the First Rain would be holy, SHE sent it HERSELF, after all. He slides closer to the demon Crawley, still hovering next to him, though their conversation had petered off, and swings one careful wing over him. Aziraphale wasn’t exactly sure _what_ to make of this demon under his wing. A demon who made it seem as though SHE did not have a plan, or that Aziraphale might have dis- not done as he was told. What he knew for sure was that this demon, Crawley, would likely melt in the First Rain. He knew he needed to keep this surprisingly nice creature safe from his actual destruction cascading down around them. He pulls his wing in closer, goes to rest it atop Crawley’s head and stops. He tries again to rest it against his head and again he is stopped by some unseen force.

“Having trouble, angel?” The teasing lilt to Crawley’s words puts a flustered blush to Aziraphale’s cheek.

“I… I’m not sure. I was simply trying to shield you from the holy rain-“

“Holy?”

“Yes, it was sent by GOD directly, of course it’s holy, Crawley.” The look on Crawley’s face is unexpected. He is afraid, anyone could see that, but it was only Aziraphale there to see his terror at the idea of discorporation in that moment. Aziraphale didn’t need to know that the terror came from cutting this new friendship so short. Crawley shuffles ever closer to his new angel, but when his foot almost brushes against Aziraphale’s, he stops. A warm tingle had run up Crawley’s leg, emanating from the almost point of contact and spreading through his whole body. He couldn’t move closer. He did try. 

“Oh,” he says stupidly.

“Yes,” replies Aziraphale, not any more intelligently. “It’s very queer, wouldn’t you say?” Crawley grins at Aziraphale.

“I was thinking the same thing.” Aziraphale didn’t need to know he thought it about him twenty minutes ago and not, as he implied, about the odd force preventing the two of them from touching.

It was all quite odd. And Crawley was quite hopelessly in love.

2.

“What would you say to some crepes?” Aziraphale’s voice tilts, a hopeful little smile gracing his features. Crowley glances away, a little embarrassed at how unbelievably cute he thought it made Aziraphale seem. Crowley thought, quite stupidly, perhaps, that after nearly 6000 years he would be used to the way Aziraphale would light up at the mere mention of Crowley… or food.

“Well, sure,” Crowley begins, letting his tongue linger on the soft consonants. “Now that I know we won’t get kidnapped walking down the street.” And, though Aziraphale can’t see it, Crowley winks. Out of a strange instinct that has no place being an instinct except for how ardently Crowley desires it, Crowley reaches out to take Aziraphale’s hand. Of course, he can’t, he never could. There’s a familiar tingle where their hands ought to touch, but… can’t. He could try again, perhaps, but he knew there would be that strange force against him no matter how many times he desperately pushed through the millennia.

“Ah, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, startled, breaking Crowley from his spiraling thoughts. “Don’t do that, you know how it bothers me so!”

Crowley hisses, “I know, angel. That’sss why I do it. Weren’t we going to get crepesss?” He asks, pretending he isn’t deeply hurt every time Aziraphale reminds him that he doesn’t like the tingling resistance between them when they (Crowley, usually) nearly touch. And it has always been _nearly_ . Crowley wondered hopelessly if maybe Aziraphale was bothered not by the warm tingle that accompanied the invisible push back, but rather that it was always _Crowley_ who caused that sensation to zing through him.

The pair miracle themselves neatly from the cramped revolutionary jail to a quiet back alley. Aziraphale straightens his cravat, smoothing out the lace as though it were not one of the offending items that got him in trouble to begin with. And the shoes, of course. With a content, if smug, smile, Aziraphale looks over to Crowley.

“You know, my dear, I really am very thankful you came to get me,” Aziraphale gives Crowley, who will not look at Aziraphale, a once over. Something wasn’t right with him, though Aziraphale was in no position to even begin to guess what could be the matter. “I mean, I got myself in such a predicament back there, it’s really a… a miracle you were even able to help me.” Crowley scoffs, rolling his eyes under his glasses. “I mean it, Crowley! Thank you _very_ much.” They meander down the street, Aziraphale walking calmly and Crowley sashaying like his life depended on it (which, if you know anything about demonology, it might). For a few minutes, they say nothing simply walking together with Aziraphale anxiously glancing over every few seconds.

“Is sssomething the matter, angel?” Crowley hisses, his posture aloof yet still closed off. Aziraphale may have been impressed if he weren’t so nervous.

“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing.” Aziraphale hesitates. They pass a stray dog, so malnourished she can’t even wag her tail fully when Crowley leans down to rub her head, angrily pretending he wasn’t doing such. When they’re beyond her, she miraculously jumps up in perfect health. Aziraphale can feel the warmth of a good deed radiating from Crowley, like a comforting hand telling him to get on with it. 

“It’s just that—“

“I thought it was nothing,” Crowley interjects rudely.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, exasperated. Crowley stays quiet. “It’s just, well, is something the matter with you, my dear?” Aziraphale can almost hear Crowley rolling his eyes, and he wants to stop, to grab Crowley by the arm and pull him into the nearest open café. Maybe Aziraphale would order them tea; he might even order something with a bit more of a kick. But, he doesn’t, can’t, never could. So, he keeps walking and Crowley keeps sauntering.

“Why does it bother you?” The question startles Aziraphale, who had been so wrapped up in imagining sitting and enjoying a glass of wine with Crowley he hadn’t even realized that was the second time Crowley had asked him.

“Why does what bother me, dear?” Aziraphale asks, risking a glance over to Crowley, who still manages to look both inviting and cold in some show of demonic prowess. Aziraphale knows he’ll never be able to master such intriguing body language, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate it when Crowley does.

“When I try to touch you, why does it bother you?” _Why don’t you want me to?_ Crowley doesn’t ask. _Why don’t you ever reach out to me?_ Crowley can’t ask.

“Oh,” it almost sounds like a sneeze, the sudden way the sound pops from Aziraphale. “Is that what this is about?”

“What is _this_ , angel?”

“The brooding,” Crowley doesn’t like the sudden smugness in Aziraphale’s voice. “Is it just because I don’t like that itchy feeling when you try to touch me?” At this, Crowley comes to an abrupt stop. Aziraphale doesn’t even notice for several strides and backtracks once he realizes he’s alone.

“ _Itchy feeling?_ ” Crowley seems horrified, and even behind the glasses Aziraphale can tell his pupils are the smallest slits. “What in Go- Sa- _Someone’s_ name are you talking about?”

“That odd itchy feeling, like having a large spider crawling just beneath my skin, right where your fingers would brush! It gives me the heebie-jeebies! Why are you so surprised, Crowley, don’t you feel that, too?” Crowley blinks at him, before nodding slowly.

“Right, the itchy feeling, right, of course.” He says, absolutely not heartbroken even a little. It makes Aziraphale feel _itchy_ like there’s a spider _in_ him. Of course. Of course it would. Of course he wouldn’t get the same warm _zing_ through his skin directly to his core. Of course only Crowley feels that. His feelings for Aziraphale are, after all, much deeper than that of associates or mere acquaintances; much deeper, after all, than Aziraphale’s own. And they always have been. How could Aziraphale feel anything but the _heebie-jeebies_ for Crowley? How could an angel feel so deeply, care so tenderly for a _demon?_

“Crowley,” Aziraphale is looking at him, concern etched into every nook and groove of his face. Crowley wants to smooth them all and tell him it’s okay, he’s just totally smitten, completely wrecked, absolutely wrung out, there’s nothing to worry about. “Crowley, do you still want to get lunch? You, well, you don’t seem quite yourself right now. Perhaps we ought to wait on that?” Really, what else could Crowley have expected? Aziraphale likely hadn’t wanted to take lunch with him to begin with.

“Yeah, we ought to postpone that. Some other time, I think I could go for a nap, actually,” Crowley murmurs, not looking Aziraphale in the eye. 

Aziraphale suddenly feels as though he could cry. Why would Crowley bother to get him from his (self-imposed) pickle if he didn’t plan on sticking around and accompanying Aziraphale, or even talking to him beyond pleasantries and cryptic questions. Aziraphale doesn’t say that. Instead he says,

“Oh, of course. Well, I’ll just keep it as a favor, then, hm? You can’t duck out the next time I ask you to lunch; else I might pull this one on you.” Crowley almost smiles. It had to be enough for them both.

3.

Crowley was standing before Aziraphale, leather bag in hand and a look in his eyes that Aziraphale was sure he’d never seen before and yet, it was painfully familiar.

“A little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?” Crowley asks, as if he hadn’t just changed Aziraphale’s whole world, as if Aziraphale hadn’t just been given the key to crack all of Crowley’s not-so-secret desires. Crowley loves him. The force of it takes Aziraphale’s breath away as he reaches to take his books. 

Aziraphale loves, loves, loves Crowley. In that moment he can’t believe he’d ever thought he hadn’t.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I do think we ought to get going, though. I’m sure they’ll be looking through the ruins of this poor church soon, don’t you?” Crowley just smiles his serpentine smile. Aziraphale is struck, not for the first time, by how truly stunning Crowley is, both inside and out; by how his smile slides a little too wide around his cheek; by how, despite his bristles, he shows kindness at every turn; by how much he spoils Aziraphale, giving him anything he asks for, just because he asks. With a start, Aziraphale turns to make his way through the ruins, Crowley not far behind.

“I was serious, angel. I can take you wherever you want to go,” Crowley says it with an air of flippancy as he so often does. Aziraphale had never thought about Crowley’s flippant sarcasm, but in this moment, feeling Crowley sauntering just a touch too close behind him, feeling the sheer magnitude of the love swelling within him that Aziraphale once mistook for opposition to The Enemy, feeling, feeling, _feeling_ , it occurs to him that there’s something more in Crowley’s tone.

“Of course, my dear. I know you’re serious, but there’s nowhere for me _to_ go,” Aziraphale murmurs, chancing a glance back to see Crowley following obediently. Something in Aziraphale’s heart leaps, and he stumbles over the rubble of the decimated church. “Crowley, do you think they’ll find the bodies in this church?” Crowley scoffs, ignoring the worry in Aziraphale’s voice. They shuffle slowly, not quite leaving the church grounds.

“They certainly might, but what does it matter if they do, angel? All they would find are the corpses of Nazi spies,” the flippant, teasing tone is all but gone, and Aziraphale aches at its passing. Crowley slows to a stop, lets air between himself and Aziraphale, lets himself breathe again. He can’t see the way Aziraphale’s face falls when the breeze can flow unhindered between them. They hadn’t been touching, no, never touching, but Aziraphale had almost been able to feel the familiar twitch in his nerves, signaling Crowley as _too close, too much._

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts. “You can take me anywhere, but I can’t say I know where I’d like to go…” He stops suddenly, and Crowley, who’d slowly begun to catch up, crashes into him inasmuch as the two can touch. A shot of electricity zips through Aziraphale head to toe, though never once does he feel the warm press of a body against his. But, it feels different. Whereas before he’d gotten tingles and chills if Crowley got too close, this felt more like the relief of a limb regaining circulation; Aziraphale had never felt more alive. Crowley lets out a gasp.

“What was that for, Aziraphale?”

“What was _what_ for,” Crowley doesn’t dignify that with a response. They both knew _what_. Instead of answering, Crowley just side steps with his too-long legs and starts walking again, away from the lost church, away from Aziraphale, who realizes he's messed up… somehow. For a long, breathless moment, Aziraphale watches him sashay away, watches the drama of Crowley’s hips, though he doesn’t go far, only to what used to be the magnificent stained glass entry before stopping and just staring ahead. Then, as if slapped, Aziraphale jerks, realizing Crowley is waiting for him. “Crowley! You said you’d take me anywhere.”

“Still will, angel. Just say the word. We could go to Alpha Centauri if you really wanted, although it’ll take a while,” Crowley’s words are once again laced with an unknown emotion, a familiar tone that Aziraphale had somehow never noticed before. If he didn’t know better, Aziraphale might guess he’s hearing _yearning_ in Crowley’s voice. But he does know better, must know better; the forces of good and evil, the expectations set as hereditary enemies depend on him knowing better. Before he can think himself out of it, Aziraphale asks,

“Would you take me back to- to Paris?” He trips over the words, a quiver hovering over them like a hesitant child. Crowley turns his head, not look at Aziraphale, but not ignoring him.

“Of course,” came the immediate response. Crowley’s mouth sours around the words, as if he hadn’t intended to say them and now regretted them. He didn’t take them back.

“Would you take me to America? To New York?” Crowley looks to the sky at this, not responding right away. Aziraphale had no way of knowing that, in the shadow of a lost church, Crowley sent up a quiet prayer, a silent plea, that this isn’t a trick, that Aziraphale would truly go anywhere with him. 

“Yes, angel,” he finally murmurs. He hasn’t turned to Aziraphale. Crowley can’t see the way tears are welling in his eyes, or the way Aziraphale is wringing the handle of his book bag. All he knows is that it feels like a very mean joke. 

“Would you take me home, Crowley?” The night breeze whispers between them. Crowley doesn’t reply for a very long, terrifying moment. Then, all but whispering, he asks,

“Would you let me?” Crowely doesn’t wait for Aziraphale to reply, just begins to walk away _again_ , shoulders hunched forward and pace brisk. Aziraphale lets him go, because while he doesn’t know what he did wrong, he knows when someone needs to be let alone. Crowley, more than anyone Aziraphale had ever upset, doesn’t react well to being questioned on his malcontent. Aziraphale looks at the stars where Crowley had looked, blinking through a hot stream of angry, confused, heartbroken tears. 

“Of course I would,” he finally whispers, barely able to get the words out around the painful lump in his throat. If anyone had been around to see it, they would see a man in a perfectly pressed suit, immaculate and pristine, in the ruins of what was once a House of God, tears streaming down his near-angelic cheeks. They might note to themselves the strange and wondrous imagery of it. Should they be walking with their lover, might mention to them how poignant it seemed. As it happened, the only one who saw Aziraphale raise his face to the heavens and cry was the only person that mattered, who chose to come back only to see something too personal to interrupt, whose courage was destroyed by the tears running seamlessly down Aziraphale’s cheeks. 

3.5.

Despite the clear and rapid gunfire from outside, Crowley and Aziraphale enter the former nunnery, lightning flickering between their nearly brushing arms. It would be difficult, especially in such a new and certainly-not-satanic church to find the birth records from a single child born eleven years ago. This is not, however what zings through an angel and a demon who tip tap across the cold marble floors. What courses between them is something much stronger than anticipation or regular dread, it’s fear, and the anxiety of mortal dread, and the wonder of a world on the brink all wrapped into one sickening package.

Crowley can feel his fingers shaking, unable to stop it even when he’s got them shoved deep into his pockets. His illusion of flippant disinterest melts with every stride as his shoulders creep ever closer to his ears. For his part, Aziraphale doesn’t notice the growing anxiety in Crowley, too engrossed in the gnawing feeling in his own chest manifesting as wringing hands and blabbering mindlessly to Crowley.

If this failed, they couldn’t think of another way to track the Anti-Christ other than good old-fashioned bounty hunting. Neither wanted to do it. Crowley didn’t even want to actually harm the humans who had tarnished his angel’s favorite jacket.

“Nice” is what did it, what broke the quiet tension between the two of them. “Nice” is what sent Crowley into a blind flurry of pained rage. “Nice” is but a four letter word, in Crowley’s opinion. Crowley can feel his whole body tingling where he should be touching Aziraphale: everywhere, everything tingled. It almost hurt, but there was no way he’d let Aziraphale know. Instead, Crowley growls in Aziraphale’s face, but can’t remember anything he says in the moments that follow.

Aziraphale on the other hand would always remember what Crowley shouted at him then, but that didn’t stop him from wanting nothing more than to lean in, to press himself further against Crowley and embrace the strange sensation of spikey warmth that spread through him and, he hopes, Crowley. It would be such an easy thing, if he could only close that gap; if he could but press Crowley’s arms to him properly, rather than the awkward hover the two of them find themselves in now. But fate had nothing of the sort in store for them. Rather, they would both end up shuffling awkwardly away at the interruption of the exact nun they had been looking for.

Hours later, they both find soft, glowing burns up and down their arms, torsos, and legs from where they so desperately needed to touch but never did. It went something like this: they part ways that evening, having not so much as mentioned the “Nice” incident, as Crowley quickly took to calling it. Aziraphale hadn’t named it, but he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since it happened. Both of them still have warmth blooming from where they never touched. The warmth is a fanciful thing, colors rippling over their skin, down to their bones, into their souls. 

Crowley undresses carefully, getting ready to sleep in and pretend nothing happened, because nothing did. As he unbuttons his shirt, the silk sliding between his fingers a smidgeon too gracefully, he notices something glittering against his skin. He shucks the shirt with a shocking rapidity, throwing it off to gawk at the gold smeared on his skin, glinting in the dim light of the street lamps. The gold runs up both arms and, he notices with a start, down the sides of his hands. He marvels at how he hadn’t noticed the gilding on his _exposed_ skin before that moment. It glitters and shimmers, fading into his skin around the edges with no distinct lines around it; it reminded Crowley of a bruise, but beautiful and warm. Curiously, the gold smear on his stomach begins to tickle and sing similar to the feeling Aziraphale gave him when they touched. Slowly, curiously, hesitantly, he runs his fingertips over the skin, barely touching, almost undetectable. Warmth and tingling bloom from his touch, similar to the sensation blooming across his stomach. A soft, pliable smile slithers onto his lips and he lets himself be pleasantly warm, semi-intoxicated by the buzz the strange golden wounds gave him.

Aziraphale did not undress with the intent to sleep – Aziraphale does not sleep – but rather because he had simply become far, far too warm in his many layers. He dressed for the cool London of the Regency, never wanting to update his wardrobe for the rapidly warming climate. He lazily disrobes, reluctant to do so, as last time he allowed himself the vulnerability of nudity, he was disturbed by his favorite demon during the most mortifying moments of carnal pleasure. Crowley had been the last being he needed to see, though Aziraphale would never deny, if asked, that Crowley had already been with him in memory. This time, however, Aziraphale wouldn’t have minded the company; wouldn’t have minded if heard Crowley’s breath hitch at the sight of his skin; wouldn’t have minded the shocking sting of Crowley’s infernal near-touch. 

As Aziraphale slips his final undershirt over his head, he stops, mid-tug to stare at the beautiful inky black shapes covering his torso. It looked like someone had poured a jar of India ink down him and let it dry in thick, dark stains to the near blue it has a penchant for. Quickly, he struggles out of the shirt, tossing it haphazardly on top of the neat stack he’d created of his other clothes. With a surprised gasp, he runs a curious finger over the stain and feels a zip of electricity run through his arm, much like what he feels when Crowley steps too close. Aziraphale sprawls his fingers across his stomach, squishing the inky stain beneath his hand. Moments later, he feels a tingle across his arms, although he hadn’t touched his arm. Idly Aziraphale wonders if Crowley had markings too, and whether he found himself gently caressing them as Aziraphale was. (He did. He was.) 

Neither ever knew for certain, but they both knew they felt something more than their own touch that evening.

4.

The distance between Crowley and Aziraphale – with Adam between them, trembling yet seemingly unafraid – felt, in the moments before Crowley thrust them back onto Earth, vast and insurmountable, like traversing an ocean without a ship, or a desert without a canteen. Aziraphale turns to Crowley, Crowley to Aziraphale. In that moment they could feel something change, could feel each other's gazes on them, piercing and warm. They were both trying to tell the other _it will be okay_. 

They say time can be neatly separated into two similar portions: Before and After. Before there is Earth, there is humanity, there is an Anti-Christ, and there is an angel and a demon who don’t quite understand what comes next. In the Sands of Time, there is the briefest of moments when Crowley doesn’t think it will work, when Aziraphale thinks maybe this was all a mistake on his part. Crowley looks over at Aziraphale, at the wings unfurled behind him, the same wings that once shielded him from the Holiest of Water, the same wings that can occasionally be sensed when Aziraphale is particularly emotional, the same wings he thinks may soon cease to exist.

As Crowley stares at Aziraphale in the infinite moment before he pulls the two of them and Adam back into the flow of reality, Aziraphale is looking right back at him. 

Crowley can see something indescribably beautiful in Aziraphale’s eyes in that brief glance. His memory is cast back to the moment he decided to slither in from Eden to talk to Aziraphale for the first time. It was a spur of the moment thing, to throw himself at a strange enemy, but he’d never, not for a moment, considered Aziraphale an “enemy.” Not when Aziraphale had silently watched The Flood, not when Aziraphale had told him he would never give him holy water. He remembers the way Aziraphale’s face had lit up when Crowley came to get him in France, when Crowley had sauntered into the church in Germany. The light behind those angelic eyes might soon be extinguished for good, Crowley knows this. But he also knows the delicate care Aziraphale takes to keep his hands in perfect condition (always clean for so many ancient tomes), he knows the breathy laugh of an angel too many drinks under, the delicate dance they turn to. It may soon all be nothing. 

_And then..._

Aziraphale recalls a time, thousands of years before, when the demon next to him had saved dozens of children from The Flood – “You can’t kill children,” he’d said – and he realized just how _human_ Crowley really is. It wasn’t something he’d seen only once, though perhaps he’d never catalogued the instances. Aziraphale had seen Crowley heal a sick and dying dog, had seen him help old women with groceries far too heavy for them to carry (though he would never admit he had anything to do with their food becoming much lighter, or they themselves becoming a little healthier), and he knows he’s felt the spark of a miracle from Crowley so many times over the millennia. He recalls the way Crowley had come so quickly when called for in France, when he’d offered Aziraphale a lift home from the ruins of a church just eighty years prior, and Aziraphale recalled every time Crowley had smiled and teased him with the same soft tone he so frequently reserves for Aziraphale alone. The many minor miracles Crowley had done with such a secretive smile. A smile might soon, Aziraphale knows, be gone from him forever. 

_And then…_

Adam is tugging on their hands, the three of them look forward, towards an adversary who they can’t yet see. Adam doesn’t have much to remember, and he has even less connected to the two occult creatures with him, but something he does know is in that moment he is _loved_ in a way he didn’t realize it was possible to be loved. It was a love so deep and so endless that he wonders if he’ll ever feel something so pure ever again. He thinks about his love for Dog and thinks this love is a lot like that: unambiguous, unconditional, unending. His love for Pepper, and Wensleydale, and Brian: The Them, his unambiguous, unconditional, unending friends. He remembers the way he treated them, he knows it was evil but it was also a very un-Adam way to treat the Them. Because he loves his friends, in the same way the two with him love him in that moment. The realization is not surprising, but it almost makes Adam want to cry. He will certainly feel a pure, holy love again, for as long as he holds his friends close and dear. It is this love he wants to take with him from all of this, a love that feels warm and Good, that could be shattered if he were to fail now. He knows love would be lost if they fail now.

Adam squeezes the hands of an angel and a demon.

_And then..._

And then time resumes and it’s nothing like they expected.

5.

After Mr. Young leaves the site of the Armageddon that didn’t, after the Four Horsemen vanish in a cloud of exhaust smoke and the squeal of angry tires on asphalt, after the Them return to their mundane, normal lives, and Anathema and Newt wander into the vast unknown of a new relationship, after Madame Tracy and Shadwell stutter their way from the airfield on her miraculously functioning scooter, Aziraphale and Crowley are left alone with their thoughts and their fears to meander back to London on their own. They’re quiet and subdued, more so than any other time they’d been together in the last nearly hundred years, but stopping a divine war drains even the strongest of occult beings. Sometime after the two of them had left Tadfield, the wind whipping around them and the light quickly fading, Aziraphale shuffles closer to Crowley. He whispers, “You did so well, my dear.” And Crowley wants to believe him. Crowley wants so badly to believe Aziraphale, but more than that, he wants so badly to _hold_ Aziraphale; to pull him into his arms beneath a fading tree in the dying Autumn light, to breathe in the smoke and sweat that surrounded his angel then. Crowley does not reach for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale looks over to Crowley, at his eyes pointedly cast away from him, at the way his matches Aziraphale’s pace for pace, and decides he’d had enough. Aziraphale stops in the road. Crowley slows to a halt ahead of him. Reluctantly, Crowley turns to look at him, his eyes finally flitting to Aziraphale’s, only to bounce away just as quickly as they had come.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers. With only a fraction of a second of thought, Aziraphale closes the gap between them and moves as though to put a hand to Crowley’s cheek, hovering so close that they could pretend they could feel the careful slide of his fingers, but the soft tingle of electricity between them betrayed the fantasy. Crowley’s eyes drift closed, but Aziraphale can’t complain as when they’re closed, Crowley sighs and turns his face towards Aziraphale’s palm; his whole hand lights up with static heat and he can only imagine how it must feel against Crowley’s face. “Crowley,” he whispers again. “Please look at me.” And he does. Aziraphale has never wanted to hold someone as much as he wanted to hold Crowley in that moment; he’s seen the rise and fall of empires and kingdoms, he’s seen wars and plagues and children begging in the streets, and in one look, he can see it all again reflected in Crowley’s unhuman gaze.

“Angel, I…” Crowley looks away. Aziraphale all but screams. They felt on the precipice of something more, not more than stopping Armageddon, but more than a platonic arrangement between moral adversaries, if they had ever been such a thing. And that was something new for Aziraphale, to realize that all this time he’d been thinking of them as more, perhaps Crowley had been too. How he hadn’t realized it sooner was beyond him, but now, in the fast approaching night, he wants to cling to Crowley in a way he’d never wanted to before. Physicality was not, to say it lightly, something Aziraphale gave away on a whim (anymore). “I think we should get back to London, angel.”

Aziraphale nods, starts to pull his hand away from Crowley’s face, but he stops. Crowley still has his face nearly nuzzled against his palm, separated by mere millimeters and something in him told him that if he were to just press he could close that gap. Crowley pulls away. The remainder of the walk to London is silent, save for the occasional quip about the weather, but it doesn’t feel cruel; it feels like Crowley is tired, and like Aziraphale needs a moment to come to terms with everything that transpired. 

They had all the time in the world.

+1.

“Crowley, my dear, have you seen the bottle opener?” Aziraphale is in his best suit, a nice tweed number without the memory of a paint stain, as he putters around the cottage, wine bottle in hand. By all accounts, he ought to be able to simply miracle the bottle open and its contents endless, but there is simply no _fun_ to be had in that. It’s been five years to the hour since Adam had prevented the Apocalypse, and Aziraphale and Crowley had spent the day with all those involved (minus The Four Horsemen, though Crowley had offered to invite them) but now it was a time just for the two of them.

“It’s in the drawer by the stove, angel,” Crowley calls from the bedroom. Aziraphale wasn’t allowed to see him until he was absolutely ready, but he’d been in there for nearly an hour. What he could possibly be doing, however, was a mystery to Aziraphale, who didn’t see the need to primp for more than half an hour. So, he opens the drawer by the stove, which he had already checked, and found the bottle opener, which had not previously been there.

“Thank you, dear!” There’s a vague sound from the bedroom that was likely ‘you’re welcome’ in Crowley’s I’m-very-busy language. The cottage in South Downs had been the best idea either of them had had in quite a long time, though it was often made quite difficult by the silly force keeping them apart, but they managed. Every room was a frantic conglomeration of Aziraphale’s warm clutter and Crowley’s dark luxury, with books stacked precariously on gilded tables and mug rings on the floor next to an exquisite (and expensive, though money was no object) coffee table from a particularly warm night of cocoa and reading next to (and oftentimes _to_ ) Crowley. The cottage is a warm, lived in place that Aziraphale loves dearly, nearly as much as he loves his demon. Aziraphale realizes he’s been simply standing there looking at the miraculous corkscrew for a long few minutes when he hears a throat cleared behind him. With a soft _ope_ , Aziraphale turns.

Crowley stands before him in a soft-looking cream-colored suit, unlike anything Aziraphale had ever seen him wear or even own. He runs a hand across the back of his neck, sunglasses nowhere in sight. It reminded him, in a distant, far-off way, of the night of Armageddon, when Crowley had proudly worn that torn black suit and an open expression, but only insofar as he was unguarded and unbespectacled. It also reminded Aziraphale a little of Warlock Dowling’s eleventh birthday party, which he wasn’t too keen on remembering. They stand staring at each other for several pregnant moments, Crowley clearly waiting for Aziraphale to say something – a simple “you look beautiful, dear” would soothe his anxieties – and Aziraphale is struck dumb by how different his life is on this anniversary, how much happier he is to be allowed the simple pleasure of seeing his love in a nice suit. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale whispers, eyes traveling the length of Crowley’s body. He could remember the first time he’d seen Crowley in something more form-fitting than the flowing gowns of the BC’s. It had been a shock to his system to remember that Crowley had a _form_ , and a pleasing one at that. Aziraphale couldn’t stop staring then, and he can’t stop staring now. 

“Do, um, do I look alright?” Crowley asks, color creeping onto his cheeks and tinting him a purple-red that reminded Aziraphale of the scales he bore as a serpent. Aziraphale’s face alights with a grin at the same moment that the clouds outside their quaint cottage part and dusky sunlight streams unadulterated into the kitchen. 

Dust moats and glassware bloom in the beautiful light, and Aziraphale’s hair becomes a beautiful hue of red that transfixes Crowley. For a moment, he forgets he’s supposed to be nervous about how _he_ looks, too busy letting himself stare at Aziraphale. 

“My dear boy, you look positively radiant.” And Crowley believes him, believes that the glowing angel before him could see him and believe him radiant. Crowley slides forward and offers a hand to Aziraphale, a silent offer to dance “Crowley, dear, I was busy before you came in,” Aziraphale’s protests are tinged with laughter, and despite the protest, Aziraphale hovers his hand in Crowley’s. They revel in the sensation of their cursed untouching, and begin an awkward dance around the cottage, never quite touching but Aziraphale lets his nose run near Crowley’s face and he smiles against his demon. They both know that they’ll have marks up and down their arms, torsos, faces, bodies later that night, but Crowley, finally content in his place in life, is happy to dance to the sound of birdsong and with the warmth of the sun streaming into a home full of love without worrying about the glowing gold blooming across his skin. Aziraphale, for his part, had never minded the black and blue inky bruises that melt across his body.

As the two of them spin around the house, near enough to each other to fool any passersby, if they ever had passersby, Crowley takes the time to look, _really look,_ at the home he’d created with Aziraphale. He couldn’t remember when he’d allowed this much tactile affection to become visible, but looking around at the stacks of books next to sliding piles of records –emblazoned with anything but Queen; at a winged mug leaving rings on a marble coffee table, ghosts of tens of other similar situations remaining on the waves of the stone; at the photos strewn about the place, taken by Adam, or Anathema, or Madam Tracy and given as gifts, or because the two of them had asked to keep them. Crowley blows softly against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale lets out a childish giggle that sends the two of them into a fit of giggles and they find themselves sliding to the floor against an old, plush couch, still inches away from each other. Crowley lawls his head over to look at his soft, smiling Aziraphale.

“Angel, when did we get here?” He asks.

“Hmm, well. After our luncheon with Newt and Anathema, which went quite late, we started our trip home, but you got distracted by a meadow, you’ll recall –” Crowley gives Aziraphale a scathing look and Aziraphale holds back his cheeky, mischievous laughter. “What was that for, dear?” 

“That was because you’re always talking too much. Besides, you knew what I meant, angel. When did we get… _here_.” Crowley motions dramatically, with a flail to the cluttered cottage around them, to the soft affection evident through their every move. Aziraphale’s eyes soften as he realizes what Crowley’s trying to ask.

“When did we fall in love?” Aziraphale draws out the words as he says them, grinning at the way Crowley buries his face into the couch. “I think I’ve loved you since you came to save me in –”

“The war, yes. I know this, angel.”

“In France.” Crowley says nothing. “I remember, you saved this sweet dog. Do you recall? She was dying there, I suppose her owner had been lost to the war, but you… You leaned down to give her a little bit of the love she’d lost and then she just… Got up and pranced away.” Aziraphale recalled it with an air of reverence, like he could almost pray to the memory of Crowley saving an innocent creature. The way Crowley looks over at Aziraphale in this moment, eyes wide and lips parted, brings forth a strange feeling in Aziraphale. He’s felt it before, a strange stinging in his gut. He thought it might desire, but Crowley could not figure out a desire for what. 

Desire for intimacy? Crowley could not, sitting there with Aziraphale close enough to leave his skin stained in tender gold, think of anything more intimate. Desire for touch? That may be so, but after 6000 years of near touches and almost physical intimacy Crowley considered himself immune to that particular desire. Then it occurs to him, as Aziraphale leans in ever closer, eyes glancing down to Crowley’s lips, and Crowley, soft and pliable in that moment, realizes he wants to _kiss_ Aziraphale. 

For Aziraphale this desire, this _need_ to kiss Crowley was a constant feeling. Something that often faded into the background, but was always there tinting his every thought, every action with him with a rosy hue. In this moment, he thinks he might be able to close the gap, there on the floor of their den, surrounded by years of memories and love, enveloped in a warm haze of love sick drunkenness. Aziraphale had never been so sure of anything in his life like he was sure that he could kiss Crowley. They sat and they looked at one another, inching closer until their breath mingled and their noses stung with the too familiar power of a touch never completed. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers, breaking the soft silence with his name like a desperate prayer. Aziraphale leans forward and closes the gap with an assured confidence, as if kissing was something the two of them had done hundreds of thousands of times before, not something that had never been considered possible. For a long, long time, they don’t move. The only point of contact between them is their lips, their noses, their cheeks, unmoving and tender. Despite Aziraphale feeling so fully confident in his ability to touch, it is as surprising to him as it is Crowley. 

Then, like a spell broken, Crowley pulls away ever so slightly before launching himself at Aziraphale. He twists an arm around him, crowding into Aziraphale’s space and pressing a hand to his cheek. Aziraphale clings to Crowley, kissing him with a breathless desperation. Never ever had they been able to feel their lover’s heart beat, their best friend’s embrace. The whole experience was heightened by the steady sting of _something_ still trying to push them apart. Not that it mattered. Crowley still had his hand to the soft skin of Aziraphale’s face, holding him with the same loving desperation of a broken man waiting for God. Aziraphale still gripped Crowley’s neck with a power heretofore unknown to Crowley, because if he let go, Aziraphale was sure they would never be able to touch again. Sure in the same way he had been sure they could touch to begin with. (Of course, this was not true, but any creature so deprived and touch starved as he would believe it). 

Finally, after what was either minutes or decades, they pull away from each other. Just enough for Aziraphale to whisper,

“Crowley, I think something has changed.” 

“I think I’m so desperately in love with you that we can defy God herself, Aziraphale.” Then Aziraphale laughs, and Crowley laughs and a tension that had been in their muscles and bones and souls for centuries begins to melt as Crowley leans into Aziraphale’s stomach, laughing and being held for the first time he can recall. Aziraphale wraps himself around Crowley, throwing his head back against the plush couch they had never cuddled on, and realizes all the things they could now do. They could lay beneath the same blanket and read (or listen to Aziraphale read); Aziraphale could lay his head in Crowley’s lap as he rants about something mundane that he probably caused; Crowley could kiss the top of Aziraphale’s head as he walks by to refill his wine. 

Their hearts in that moment are full. Their souls are becoming aware that they can heal. Crowley and Aziraphale, for the first time in 6000 years, can hold each other and begin a new life, on this, the first day of the rest of their lives. 

**Author's Note:**

> The way I see it, the reason they couldn’t touch before is because they didn’t think they could. When Aziraphale decided they could, they did Pratchett-Gaiman style.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Crown Shyness (Art for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019 event)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354435) by [AMadness2Method (CynSyn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/AMadness2Method), [CynSyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/CynSyn)




End file.
